Mestre dos Pesadelos

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In the early spring, the gentle virtues spread, and all living things shone with brilliance. Within Fujiang City, a balmy breeze stirred amid a riot of colorful blossoms. On the broad stone-paved streets, crowds surged shoulder to shoulder; vendors hoisted their loads and shouted their wares, the bustling scene as lively as boiling water on a stove.

A stooped old woman, pressed against a stall for support, stood on tiptoe to pay, then raised her tofu high above her head to protect it. She cursed angrily, “What kind of wicked wind is this? Why has Fujiang City suddenly been flooded with so many people? There’s barely a place to step! I had to queue just to buy tofu, and out of three pieces, two got broken. Life has become unbearable!”

The young tofu seller was surprised. “Grandma, don’t you know? Three months ago, everyone started saying that the Moon-Picking Pavilion in the east of the city was going to host the Grand Assembly of Dream Weavers. Now the event is nearly upon us, and people are pouring in from all directions. In a few days, even more will come.”

“A salt merchants’ conference? You mean a gathering of salt sellers?” The old woman stepped aside and shouted toward the street, drawing curious glances from passersby.

A burly man standing behind her sneered and, while buying tofu, said, “No, it’s definitely not about selling salt! I heard the Dream Weavers manipulate dreams like that pastry chef at Pinecloud Inn manipulates dough—they can shape it however they want and even make things from dreams come true. Their powers are